


Holy War

by Zoisitechan



Category: True Detective
Genre: Established Relationship, Issues, M/M, Sexual Identity, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 11:58:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4347851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoisitechan/pseuds/Zoisitechan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some nights raise more questions than answers. <i>That</i> scene from this week's episode, s02e04.</p><p>Now also available in Chinese: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4435202</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holy War

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Holy War 圣战](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4435202) by [Virgil (Alucard1771)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alucard1771/pseuds/Virgil)



Morning tasted like salt, whisky and guilt in his mouth.

As he emerged from his troubled sleep, Paul Woodrugh registered that, except for a pair of briefs, he was laying naked on his stomach, in what it wasn't his own bed, or Em's, but completely someone else's.

He rolled over and the skin on his lower abdomen and thighs felt sticky.  
_What the —_

The TV sound came a moment later, spreading through the small apartment. He stood up and walked a bit unsteadily towards the source of that noise.

And there he was.  
Gilb - Miguel Gilb - his Army fellow, was having breakfast on the sofa, shirtless and watching the game like nothing happened.

"Hola, cabrón!" he addressed Paul, smiling gently. "We put out some fires last night or what?"

The consciousness of almost all the events from the previous evening came rushing back to Paul, shocking him.  
_Almost_ , because he didn't remember how the hell he got there.  
"I drove here?" he asked in disbelief, like he doubted to have acted on his own will.

"You don't remember meeting me at Lux?" Miguel hinted.

Of course he did.

Woodrugh went to that club, the _Lux Infinitum_ , with the sole purpose of working on his investigation (or so he told himself), but it ended up in a very alcohol-fueled night, to say the least. And he and Miguel _—_

__—_ fuck._

Flashing images of what occurred between them just a few hours before made Paul feel way too dismayed for his own liking.

_He did it again._

Despite his brain telling him 'nevermore', his body - and heart? - called the shots. And Paul fucked a guy once more.

Or, technically, he was fucked, but it didn't matter who penetrated who, at the moment. The huge problem was that he desperately wanted to leave in Afghanistan what happened in Afghanistan, but then he was proven unable of achieving this goal.

Black Mountain was still haunting him, no matter how much he sacrified, at those times, for the greater good, for America.

Besides, there was this _—_ this _mistake_ , this misstep, this thirst and hunger and crave for the male's body, everything that his girlfriend didn't possess and everything his own lust responded to. He couldn't get a boner around a hot woman without _pharmacological aid_ , for fuck's sake! Instead, this —

 

He needed some fresh air.

He needed to part from Miguel as soon as possible, denying everything, blocking every memory. He dressed up quickly and agitatedly.

His lover, instead, looked extremely relaxed and satisfied, watching television, eating waffles. Telling him _'You let yourself go, man. Be what you want, it ain't bad'._

Woodrugh rushed out, without even thinking of taking a shower, although he was stinking. He couldn't wash _it_ away anyway.

 

Ten minutes later, on his taxi ride, his mind finally cleared and he could recall everything.

How the two of them stripped from their clothes and the heat in the room suddenly became unbearable as their bare bodies touched, hot and sweaty, deliciously. How he kneeled on the bed face down, on all fours, invitingly.

How the other man took a grip on his hips and pushed _—_

Like they did the first time, in wartime, in their tent, but harder, faster, deeper. How Paul turned his face to find Miguel's mouth for a round of hungry and wet kisses, tongues imitating the rythm of their hips.

It didn't feel like something wrong, or bad, it seemed beautiful. It _was_ beautiful.

A tear rolled down his cheek. Then another.

 

Paul cried.

His own mother would have mocked him, at this point. _Poor Paulie_ , she would have scoffed. At least she wasn't sitting there to see him.

Maybe he didn't cry for what he did (and wanted), but because he didn't _know_. He didn't know what, _who_ he was. At his age, after everything that ever happened to him in life, how could he possibly not know? But the Army, the Police Department tell you what to do _—_ not how to live, or who you are.

Or maybe he just needed someone to tell him that it was okay. That it was going to be okay.

Right now, however - his inner self a stranger to him - Paul had no idea how to survive out in the world; it was far worse than any battlefield he ever stood on. It was a sort of private holy war between what it sounded right in his head and what it felt right in his heart. 

Not unlikely any other holy war, though, forcing some beliefs on someone - in this case, himself - wasn't expected to end well.

 


End file.
